“She is family,” Mischa corrects, cutting his eyes to him. “That term means something to me. But it also means that she needs to learn the truth for herself—not all men believe the same.”
“Then it’s settled,” Donatello says, shifting the subject. He extends his hand toward Fabio, prompting the other man to fish two pens from his briefcase. Donatello accepts one, signing the stack before him. Cocking his head, he observes Mischa. “Do you agree?”
Mischa rises from the table and heads for the door. “I’m not going to play this game—”
“This has never been a game,” Fabio says, his tone harder than ever. “You claim to care about your daughter? Then think of her—” He withdraws another page from his briefcase and places it on the table. “These are her demands. She’s made her voice heard, whether or not either of you want to hear it.”
Mischa pauses, his body rigid. Swiftly, he turns on his heel and snatches the other pen. He signs on the stack nearest him and slams the pen down.
“I guess we’re in agreement,” he says coldly.
“It seems we are.” Fabio accepts the documents in stride, tucking both into his briefcase. “As promised, here is the information I’ve gathered so far on the as of yet unnamed threat.”
Mischa returns to the table, accepting the document, as does Donatello. While they read, their frowns deepen eerily in unison.
“Son a bitch!” Donatello looks up at Fabio. “Why didn’t you say anything about this before?”
“That whoever masterminded this rift between you two has quietly bought out a third of the harbor’s waterfront property? I thought that would be best discussed once the more volatile topics were squared away.”
“But you don’t have an identity yet?” Mischa demands.
Fabio shakes his head. “They’re clever, but with the combined resources of the mafiya and famiglia, we might be able to better pinpoint a name at least.”
“If he’s as ‘clever’ as you say, then why haven’t we heard of him until now?” Mischa argues. “The Saleris or anyone else wouldn’t have the tact to cover their tracks. But we’re supposed to believe that someone new has come out of the blue? Bullshit.”
“I’m working on it,” Fabio says. “My suggestion is that Mischa, you use your territory in the waterfront to your advantage. Start leveraging your position against the owners who have sold and see if you can squeeze out a name. And there is one more thing…” He tugs at his collar, his expression suddenly grim. “I think that, given the intelligence of this particular individual, we should be aware that there may be moles embedded where we least expect them. He has to be getting his information from somewhere.”
“I will vouch for my men,” Mischa says, eyeing Donatello.
Surprisingly, the other man doesn’t take the bait. He stares off into space as if he’s too lost in thought to notice.
“Money can sway anyone,” Fabio says. “In the meantime, Donatello and I will work our contacts to find out where the money is coming from.”
“Like one happy family,” Donatello snarls nastily.
Mischa says nothing, rising from the table again. With one last glance at me, he heads for the door, his guard following dutifully in his wake.
“Just one last thing,” Donatello adds. His faked nonchalance sets off alarm bells in my mind. Instantly, I’m on guard. “We didn’t discuss the wedding details.”
“We can agree upon those later,” Fabio says quickly, gathering his briefcase. “Let’s—”
“There’s no need,” Donatello suggests. “In fact, I insist on it.”
“On what?”
His smile is a chilling display of white teeth. “On planning every detail of the ceremony. I’ll let Fabio pick the place and make the security arrangements, of course, but everything down to the gown of my beautiful bride will be at my discretion.”
My breath catches. For a harrowing heartbeat, the rest of the world fades to a murmur, drowned out by my surging pulse. The bright, cheery café falls away. All I see is him, staring back with a look that heralds only danger.
It feels like an eternity before other noises break through. In reality, it’s been just seconds.
Mischa’s eyes flash as he snarls a reply.
Fabio beats him to it. “I thought your fiancée made her opinion clear on that front?”
“She said she wants to pick her own clothing,” Donatello says, still holding my gaze. “But I’ll make an exception for the wedding dress.”
Fabio frowns, seemingly puzzled by that point of contention.
But I’m not. Again, it only cements the suspicion I’ve had from the start. I’m the only one he truly perceives as his enemy. Mischa is just a distraction, a respected opponent in war.
Me? I am a thorn in his side.
12
Don
“Bravo,” Fabio snarls, clapping. “That was a marvelous performance.”
We’re in my study, but already the place feels different. Dustier. Dimmer. By the day, this old structure seems to get even older, further removed from the past. Soon these walls will split and collapse in on themselves, swallowing anything left between them.
“You made your point, Don. At least you kept it PG, so I guess I can’t complain. Here—” Pausing mid-rant, Fabio draws a different set of documents from his briefcase. “The insurance forms,” he says. “Should I ask why you wanted them now?”
“No reason.” I take them, setting them on my desk. I feel Fab’s eyes on the back of my neck, and I’m careful not to give away too much interest.
But those papers contain Vin’s future.
“You reverted control of the port back to me, correct? What’s left of it, anyway.” How could I forget? Mischa Stepanov decided to set it on fire. In all the chaos since, I haven’t had the time to survey the damage.
Regardless, the land itself is still worth something.
“Yes,” Fabio says warily. “I haven’t gotten to finalize the finer details amid our recent eventful schedule, though.”
“I want it all listed,” I say, raking my eyes over the language of the insurance document. “All of it goes to
